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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511457">The Grand Tour of Messrs Potter and Riddle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalCamelot/pseuds/RoyalCamelot'>RoyalCamelot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action/Adventure, Brotherly Bonding, World Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:15:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,962</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalCamelot/pseuds/RoyalCamelot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry finds Tom Riddle's diary on his first trip into Diagon Alley and finally sees someone he can look up to. Unfortunately, he's not quite right – at least, not yet. Follow the unlikely duo across all seven continents as they embark upon a Grand Tour - finding knowledge, adventure, and maybe, just maybe, something like family. NOT a Tom x Harry story!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Alley and the Riddle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>I dislike vague summaries so here you go:</strong>
</p><p>1) This is NOT a Tom x Harry story. They have a strictly platonic relationship. Neither of them will have a main pairing here, because that's not the focus of this story, although they <em>might </em>become involved with side characters temporarily. Absolutely no bashing.</p><p>2) <span class="u">This fic was directly inspired by Notus-Oren's excellent "The Imposter Complex"</span>, which I highly recommend, and is similar in many ways. Like in that fic, Tom Riddle here is a very different character from Lord Voldemort, for reasons that will become evident. Be aware that while our stories have similar premises, my Tom Riddle is quite different from his, and will act accordingly.</p><p>3) Some chapters contain a little bit of text pulled from Rowling's series, mainly dialogue, as I found that a good way of showing in what ways this story is different from canon and in what ways it is the same. I make no claim to these passages or anything else of J.K. Rowling's.</p><p>Right, enough of that!</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Tom Riddle wants a new start.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Harry Potter wants a brother.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>They both want an adventure.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>It all goes downhill from there.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">Chapter 1:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>The Alley and the Riddle</em>
</p><p> </p><p>–HP–</p><p>The best day of Harry’s life ended the moment he arrived back at Number 4 Privet Drive.</p><p>It had taken all of thirty seconds for his uncle to wrench his trunk out of his hands and stuff it into the cupboard under the stairs. Luckily, his owl’s cage was too wide to fit through the door; Harry didn’t think his uncle would really expected her to stay in there for a whole month, but he was very glad he didn’t have the option.</p><p>Vernon locked the cupboard door, pocketed the key, and lumbered back into the kitchen.</p><p>“We’ve already eaten,” he barked over his shoulder, “so go to bed!”</p><p>Harry dragged the birdcage up the stairs and into Dudley’s second bedroom with care.</p><p>It was full of everything his cousin had broken over the years: A TV set Dudley had put his foot through; a bent air-rifle that Dudley had sat on; a toy plane Dudley had thrown out of the window; and two dozen other things that Dudley’s prodigious bulk had manged to mangle in some way.</p><p>The only things that weren’t misshapen, smashed or ruined were the books, which were in perfe– <em>the book!</em></p><p>Harry clapped a hand to his forehand and quickly dug it out of his pocket. How had he forgotten? His uncle might have locked up his schoolbooks, but he didn’t know about the one in Harry’s oversized pocket.</p><p>It was small, dark, and unassuming – it might not look like it, but it was magical; he was sure of it. After all, he'd found it in a wizarding bookshop hadn't he? Now that he thought about it, it was odd really, that in an entire shop of books on curses, potions, and spells, this little black book had been the only one that felt magical to him.</p><p>He had found it in Flourish and Blotts; wanting to avoid the overwhelming crowds and clear his head, which was still swimming with the knowledge that he was <em>famous</em>, he'd wandered off when Hagrid went off to buy his schoolbooks.</p><p>Inching around the towering stacks of scrolls, grimoires, and tomes that seemed to hold up the ceiling of the labyrinthine shop, Harry had steadily gotten more and more lost. Somehow he had ended up in a dead-end; a seemingly forgotten corner of the shop, hidden behind a faded purple curtain. It wasn't a particularly exciting section. In fact, compared to the rest of the shop the ancient books left here seemed rather dull.</p><p>But there was something about it that made him linger.</p><p>Maybe it was the fact that he was clearly the first person to find it in a long while, the floor was dirty enough that he was leaving footprints as he walked – there was a sense of adventure in that – the thrill of exploration. Even if the only thing Harry had found was some very dusty books.</p><p>There must be loads of hidden places in the magic world, Harry had thought eagerly, if he managed to find one without even looking for it! Feeling rather more excited than the situation really warranted, Harry peered into every nook and cranny of the dingy space. That was how he had found the book.</p><p>Despite having shoved to the back of a shelf, half-hidden in the gloom, he noticed it immediately – it stuck out like a sore thumb.</p><p>The tomes surrounding it were massive and heavy and bound with stiff leather. Most of them were large enough to warrant metal clasps; delicate silver ones and thick cast iron ones and a few that shone like gold. Their covers were cracked and stained by time. None of the books looked like they belonged to the same century as Harry.</p><p>But instead of thick, brown leather, the book had a thinner, more supple cover of deepest black. It was small enough to fit in Harry's baggy pocket and much too thin to need a clasp of any kind. What had really piqued Harry's curiosity, though, was that it looked like it had been put there very recently.</p><p>It lay on a carpet of dust an inch thick, and yet there hadn't been even one speck on it.</p><p>But that didn't make any sense, Harry had thought, eyeing his dusty footprints – there were no others. If someone had just put it there, surely there would be some similar sign? Intrigued, he had reached out and grabbed it. As soon as his fingers had brushed the pristine cover, a rush of <em>something</em> had surged up his fingers.</p><p>Looking back, he realised it had felt a lot like when he found his wand. Except, while his wand had felt like joy and excitement to Harry, the book had felt . . . inviting. As if the book wanted him to pick it up as much as Harry did.</p><p>He'd scrambled backward, and barely had time to read the date '1943' stamped in faded gold letters across the front, when Hagrid had yanked back the curtain, carrying a stack of schoolbooks.</p><p>A lifetime of pinching food from the fridge when his aunt had her back turned had instilled Harry with excellent reflexes for exactly this sort of occasion; before Hagrid's eyes had adjusted to the gloom he'd shoved the book deep into the pocket of his tatty jeans.</p><p>"Harry," Hagrid said, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder so that Harry's had knees buckled under its weight. "There yeh are, what are yeh doin' back here anyway?"</p><p>"Oh, sorry Hagrid," Harry mumbled sheepishly, "I just wandered off a bit."</p><p>"Yer a mess!" said Hagrid gruffly. "Come on now, we gotta get yer cauldron."</p><p>They were halfway down the street before Harry realised that he hadn't bought the book, and as guilty as he had felt at stealing – even if it was an accident – he had been too embarrassed to admit his mistake to Hagrid. And for some reason, he didn't want to share his discovery with someone else, even Hagrid, who had been so nice to him.</p><p>Instead, he decided he would leave some extra money there when he next went to the bookstore, and keep it a secret.</p><p>Now that Harry was back at Number 4 Privet Drive – which felt painfully boring compared to the wonders of Diagon Alley – he finally had a chance to look through it. He studied its front cover; it was black as tar and despite its age looked to be in good condition. On the back cover was the address for a newsagent's on Vauxhall Road, London.</p><p>How strange, thought Harry, for a Muggle book to be so far from anything even slightly Muggle-ish. Maybe it was a disguise, in case it fell into the wrong hands?</p><p>He decided that was probably the answer; in truth, he just couldn't wait any longer. Excitedly, he opened the book to the first page.</p><p>'<em>Diary of T. M. Riddle</em><em>'</em> was written in tall, cursive handwriting in the middle of the yellowish page, underlined with an elegant loop. A diary – it was a wizard's diary!</p><p>He turned the page again, eager to read anything about magic that he could get his hands on.</p><p>It was blank. Utterly blank.</p><p>Despair seized Harry, and he flicked through the rest of the book at lightning speed. The rest of the pages were exactly the same, blank, except for a small date in the top left of each page. He couldn't believe it.</p><p>He was so <em>sure</em> he felt something in Flourish and Blotts – that this book was special in some way.</p><p>Harry suddenly felt very foolish; it was just some stupid normal diary. No wonder it had been left in the dust and the dark.</p><p>Tossing it onto the ground, he turned off the light and fell backward onto the bed. The exhausting day had taken its toll on him. Harry couldn't believe that he'd woken up in a leaky shack out in the sea this morning, it felt like a lifetime had passed since then, and now he had a lifetime's worth of things to think about.</p><p>His mind didn't seem to know what to focus on: how he had apparently destroyed the Dark Lord Voldemort; the murder of his parents; Diagon Alley and Gringotts; going to Hogwarts and leaving the Dursleys; the disappointing diary; the list went on endlessly, and it took him a very long time to fall asleep.</p><p>–HP–</p><p>Harry's next few days with the Dursleys wasn't fun. True, Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn't stay in the same room, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't shut Harry in his cupboard, but that was probably only because he wouldn't fit with the trunk already in there.</p><p>Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry in it were empty – until they needed something from him. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.</p><p>And his list of chores was just as endless as ever, and while watching his aunt try to communicate them to him without actually <em>speaking</em> was funny at first, soon it just made him even lonelier.</p><p>Now that he knew that there was an entire secret world waiting for him to come and join it the Dursleys were more unbearable than ever – he had never felt so unwanted. So Harry kept to his new room, with his new owl for company. Rather brilliantly, he thought, he'd had the idea to name her after a famous witch.</p><p>The only problem was, he didn't know the names of any famous witches, so he resolved to look through his History of Magic book as soon as he could.</p><p>Mostly, he lay on his bed and read Dudley's discarded adventure books late into the night, his owl swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn't come in to vacuum anymore because she kept bringing back dead mice.</p><p>Every night before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, counting down to September the first.</p><p>With little to do, Harry found himself spending an unusual amount of time staring at Riddle's book. Even though he knew it was blank, he kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a story he wanted to finish.</p><p>And while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he'd had when he was very small, and had half-forgotten.</p><p>But that was absurd. He'd never had friends before, Dudley had made sure of that.</p><p>Late one night, feeling tired but unable to sleep, Harry took to throwing pens and pencils from his bed, trying to land them in the pot on the desk. It was difficult and most of them missed, some rather spectacularly; like the felt-tip pen he managed to throw out of the window and into his aunt's prized flower bed.</p><p>It took one of them bouncing off the radiator and landing on top of Riddle's book for inspiration to strike. What if the book wasn't blank, but was just <em>hiding </em>its contents? What if he needed to show the book that he was a wizard?</p><p>That would explain why it looked so normal. Surely, he thought excitedly, if he could just prove he wasn't a Muggle then it would reveal its true contents to him!</p><p>He leapt out of the bed so quickly that his foot got tangled in the blankets; he fell to the floor with a thud.</p><p>Heart in his mouth, Harry stayed very still and quiet. His aunt and uncle might not want to so much as look at him recently, but he was pretty sure that waking them up in the middle of the night was a pretty good way to get thrown back in his cupboard.</p><p>When the deep rumbles of Vernon's stores didn't change, he got back up carefully and turned on the frilly lamp on his desk. Snatching up the pen and book, he flipped to the first blank page and paused. What could he say to prove he was a wizard? He decided to start small and work up to it.</p><p>"<em>Hello, my name is Harry Potter."</em></p><p>The words lay there, looking perfectly ordinary, for just a moment. Then they soaked into the page like water into cracked soil.</p><p>Harry gasped loudly, staring at the book as he marveled at the simple display of magic. Before he could think what to say next black ink bubbled out of nowhere onto the page; it pooled and twisted to form the same precise, slender handwriting that the book was signed in.</p><p>"<em>Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?"</em></p><p>The words faded in the same manner as Harry's, but he was already scribbling a response.</p><p>"<em>From Flourish and Blotts, the bookshop on Diagon Alley, when I went to get my books for Hogwarts. Do you know how it got there?"</em></p><p>He waited eagerly for Riddle's reply.</p><p>"<em>I cannot be certain, but I suspect it was stolen. It's lucky that I recorded my memories in some more subtle way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would covet this diary."</em></p><p>"<em>What do you mean?" </em>Harry scrawled, excited that his hunch had been correct – this book was special!</p><p>"<em>I mean that this diary holds powerful knowledge. Knowledge that those in power wanted to cover up. Knowledge that you will not find within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."</em></p><p>"<em>I'll be going there in three weeks." </em>Harry wrote quickly. <em>"What sort of knowledge are you talking about?"</em></p><p>Harry's heart was hammering in his chest. None of Dudley's adventure books were even half as thrilling as this.</p><p>"<em>Magic, of course. I know more about the deepest corners of magic than wizards thrice my age. When I was a student of Hogwarts, just like you, I sought for magic that they told me was a legend, that they told me didn't exist. But they lied. I uncovered secrets and spells that I was not supposed to find, and they forbade me from ever telling the truth. They gave me a nice, shiny trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew that what I had discovered was too important to remain hidden – it had to be taught to others. So I made this diary; so that I one day I could pass on what I knew to a worthy successor."</em></p><p>Harry couldn't believe his luck – he'd thought he would have to wait until he got to Hogwarts to learn more about witchcraft and wizardry. The way Riddle was writing, magic sounded mysterious and complex. He had so much more to learn than he had first thought, he realised.</p><p>And Hagrid had told that everyone knew Hogwarts was the best wizarding school in the world, he bet all of the other students knew loads of magic already!</p><p>Panic suddenly took hold of him – a terrible vision of him being turned away from Hogwarts and being sent back to the Dursleys.</p><p>"<em>Can you teach me?" </em>he scrawled hurriedly.</p><p>Harry chewed the end of the biro worriedly, waiting for a response. If Riddle agreed to teach him, surely there was no way he could be turned away from Hogwarts – he was clearly a brilliant wizard.</p><p>"<em>I'm not sure about that. I don't anything about you except your name; how do I know I can trust you?"</em></p><p>"<em>I won't tell anyone anything, I promise." </em>Harry wrote. <em>"My family hates magic anyway, they're scared enough of the word – I don't think they could handle me telling them actual spells and stuff."</em></p><p>Riddle seemed to be thinking things over; he was taking a long time to respond. Harry was just starting to think he might not ever when finally new words formed on the page.</p><p>"<em>That's reassuring, Harry. Very well, I will consider your request. But I'll need some time to decide; I still don't know anything about you – you are complete stranger to me. If I knew you better it would help me make up my mind."</em></p><p>A wide grin spread Harry's face. That was a good start.</p><p>"<em>What do you want to know?" </em>he asked.</p><p>Riddle's reply emerged from the page slowly – contentedly. The writing wasn't as tall or sharp as his previous messages. Harry thought it looked . . . friendlier. He took it as a good sign.</p><p>"<em>Let's start small and work our way up. Why don't you tell me about your day?"</em></p><p>–HP–</p><p>Tom Riddle was doing some serious thinking.</p><p>He'd gotten very good at it – years of existing in the dark void of the diary had given him a great deal of practice. It had been a necessity: either think or go mad.</p><p>The child had stopped writing to him halfway through a sentence; presumably, he'd fallen asleep. Now, at last, Tom was free to think through the implications of everything he'd learned, which was admittedly not very much.</p><p>At least the boy had been laughably easy to manipulate. Most witches and wizards – even children – were wary of enchanted books at the best of times, and the Diary he was residing in was toeing the line of being cursed.</p><p>But the boy as Muggle-born it seemed, if the comments on his family were true, which was mixed news for Tom.</p><p>On the one hand, he'd been blissfully unaware of the danger he was in and had practically handed himself to Tom on a silver plate. It also meant there was almost no chance of an actually competent wizard finding the diary for several weeks. Only once the boy took him to Hogwarts would he be in any real danger of discovery.</p><p>That bought him crucial time to investigate what had happened out in the Real during his long isolation and form a plan of action.</p><p>On the other hand, Tom thought irritably, it would severely handicap his planning because it meant the boy likely knew essentially nothing of the wizarding world, let alone its history.</p><p>Still, he could work with what he had been given.</p><p>Tom had given his well-honed speech; designed to enthrall whoever came across the diary – to make them want to keep it secret and safe. It had worked perfectly, and if he had a mouth with which to smile, he would have.</p><p>A convincing display of caution and the boy was falling over himself to prove to Tom that he was worthy – as if Tom was actually going to impart anything valuable to some snot-nosed child. Despite how much he wanted to, Tom refrained from asking anything beyond the inane; specifically, questions about his Real-self, and instead simply laid down the groundwork for future interactions.</p><p>Tom had languished in that diary for an eternity, he was patient and willing to wait. And as he waited, he did what he'd been doing for most of his life.</p><p>There was nothing physical in the Unreal, nothing with which he could occupy himself; the only thing he had was his mind and he was<em> not</em> the sort of person to let it fall into madness without a fight.</p><p>Yet, despite the sharpness of his mind, he felt woefully blunt as he tried to wrestle what he knew into some sort of coherent sequence of events. Tom knew a complete picture was far off, but he could begin trying to surmise answers to the most important questions.</p><p>Firstly, how had a child, on their first trip into Diagon Alley, managed to come across his<em> Horcrux?</em></p><p>The diary was supposed to be kept on his Real-self's person at all times, not left in the busiest place in Wizarding Britain. After all, it was much more than just an anchor to the mortal plane.</p><p>Tom had acted as a sounding board for his Real-self; they had spent countless hours deliberating and honing plans. He had always had an excellent memory, but the diary could recall anything ever written into it, which made it invaluable as a store of knowledge.</p><p>He was sure his Real-self would not have simply cast it aside carelessly; even after they had begun to argue his Real-self had continued to use the diary as pseudo-grimoire for years – it was just too useful.</p><p>As he continued to ruminate, Tom only became more anxious.</p><p>He'd gotten the year out of the boy, 1992. Unless something had gone <em>seriously</em> wrong, his Real-self would be in a high position of power by now. He tried to reassure himself that even if he were the Minister of Magic right now, it wasn't that unlikely that a Muggle-born wouldn't recognize the name, or make the connection.</p><p>'Tried' was the operative word, because it wasn't working. There were just too many niggling problems – a dozen little questions that dragged the pacifying scenario through the mud. Even if Muggle-born might not recognise a famous wizard's name, surely the curators of Flourish and Blotts would? Wouldn't they return it to its rightful owner?</p><p>Cataloguing that line of thinking for later, Tom continued. How <em>had</em> he ended up in the well-known bookstore?</p><p>He admitted to himself that it wasn't entirely unlikely that his Real-self had decided was no longer important enough to carry around – they had been steadily splitting apart over the years, disagreeing more often and more vehemently. Furthermore, the very reason they had created multiple Horcruxes was that it made each of them less of a vulnerability.</p><p>And, Tom thought bitterly, thus less valuable to his Real-self.</p><p>Yet still, if his Real-self had decided to hide the diary somewhere permanently, he would have concealed the diary away somewhere dark and deep, like the cave he'd visited in his youth. Diagon Alley was about as far from dark and deep as it was possible to be.</p><p>Had his fictitious speech actually been correct, had the diary been stolen?</p><p>It seemed unlikely; the diary was very unassuming to look at. Not to mention, not many people would be able to steal from Tom Riddle and get away with it. But if his Real-self had been unable to do anything about it – if he had been killed, then maybe it wasn't so unlikely.</p><p>He would be able to come back, of course, he knew the ritual intimately, but Horcruxes were among the most obscure Dark Magic in the world; it wasn't exactly a well-studied field. Tom had no idea how arduous the process would actually be in practice. That theory certainly held merit, he thought grimly.</p><p>Then Tom's metaphysical heart skipped a beat; what if something had gone wrong with the rituals? He had gone further down the path to immortality than any other wizard in history, of that he was sure. Was it such a leap to think that he might have failed in some unforeseeable manner?</p><p>Tom and his Real-self had agreed that more than one Horcrux was essential for true security from death. They had theorized, based on Herpo the Foul's speculations, that splitting the soul too many times would result in a cascading failure of every piece – it would simply be too unstable.</p><p>So they had gone over the arithmancy a thousand times – designed and discarded a hundred rituals – searching for that elusive stability. But it had paid off; Tom was sure that a seven-part soul with every piece carefully linked together by a ritual only he was <em>brilliant</em> enough to dream up would have afforded his Real-self true, sustainable immortality.</p><p>But what if his Real-self hadn't been able to reach that number, and that was why he hadn't written to Tom in decades? What if he'd fractured at five or six? Was Tom's existence in the diary serving a purpose, or was he an anchor for a broken soul that had shattered beyond repair?</p><p>Harry slept on soundly, albeit in an uncomfortable position, utterly unaware of the terror racing through the book his head rested on.</p><p>For Tom, it was a very, very long night.</p><p>–HP–</p><p>Harry woke up with a start. There was a sharp rapping noise coming from the hallway; his aunt was knocking on the door.</p><p>"I'm up, I'm up!" he called.</p><p>Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. Picking his head up from the desk, he flushed; he'd drooled a little bit on Riddle's diary during the night.</p><p>He blinked the sleep from his eyes and debated writing to him – he should probably apologise for falling asleep midway through their conversation. It would have to wait though, because he could hear his uncle's massive footsteps getting closer.</p><p>Harry stumbled over to the door and managed to open it before his uncle woke up half the street with his hammering. Vernon was standing in the hall, one meaty fist raised to do just that.</p><p>He gave Harry a look of deepest loathing – probably upset he didn't get to savage the door, Harry thought – before turning and lumbering downstairs, with Harry in tow.</p><p>Aunt Petunia was cooking bacon in the kitchen, but as soon as Harry walked in she snapped her fingers at him and sat down at the table. With a sigh, Harry took over the cooking.</p><p>He had finished the bacon, sausages, and toast and had moved on to frying half a dozen eggs by the time Dudley arrived.</p><p>Breakfast was as tense and uncomfortable that morning as it had been since Harry's birthday. His uncle hid behind his newspaper, Dudley ate as fast as he possibly could – a speed that would have been impressive if it weren't so disgusting – and Aunt Petunia alternated between glaring at him angrily and pretending there were only three people at the table.</p><p>After Vernon had left for work and Dudley had left to terrorize the neighborhood, Petunia told Harry his long list of chores for the day. While his cousin lolled around watching TV and eating ice cream, Harry cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead the entire time, burning the back of his neck.</p><p>Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he thought savagely, as he spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running down his face.</p><p>It was half-past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, he heard Aunt Petunia calling him. He gladly moved into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. There were two slices of bread and a lump of cheese waiting for him on the kitchen table; he washed his hands, bolted down his pitiful supper, and ran upstairs as fast as he could.</p><p>His owl had come back at some point and was now snoozing in her cage. Harry quietly pulled out the rickety chair and sat down, picking up the biro. He wondered how to start the conversation.</p><p>–HP–</p><p>"<em>Good evening, Mr Riddle. Sorry I fell asleep last night."</em></p><p>So the boy had finally decided to write to him again. Tom didn't exactly have a clock to hand, but he was pretty sure he'd been left alone in the void for longer than one night. Still, appearances had to be maintained, he thought.</p><p>"<em>That's quite alright, Harry, and please – call me Tom." </em>He replied, though he felt a prickle of irritation at the informality.</p><p>"<em>Ok, Tom. Is there anything you want to talk about?"</em></p><p>He sneered inwardly; the boy had written to him, not the other way around! Luckily for him, there were a great many things Tom wanted to talk about. He'd start with the most natural-sounding one.</p><p>"<em>Yes, I was wondering," </em>Tom wrote,<em> "when you found me in Flourish and Blotts, was that your first time in Diagon Alley?"</em></p><p>"<em>Yeah, it was. I didn't even know magic was real until Hagrid told me," </em>the boy replied.</p><p>Hagrid? Surely not the same Hagrid he’d gotten expelled creating this very diary?</p><p>"<em>I imagine it was an enormous shock, seeing the magical world for the first time. I've not heard of a Hagrid before, does he work for Hogwarts?"</em></p><p>"<em>He's the groundskeeper and Keeper of Keys. You must have gone to Hogwarts before he started working there, you would definitely remember him. He's nearly nine-foot-tall!"</em></p><p>So it was the same Hagrid then; it wasn't like there were many half-giants frolicking around Britain. How on Earth had that oaf winded up working at Hogwarts?</p><p>"<em>And you're right, it was a huge shock! I didn't even know I was famous, my aunt and uncle never told me about magic, or my parents, or You-Know-Who."</em></p><p>Well, that was an unexpected twist, Tom thought. What would an eleven-year-old be famous for? And how was he supposed to know who You-Know-Who was?</p><p>"<em>You must be right, I don't know anyone like that. I'm afraid I don't know who you are talking about either, or why you are famous," </em>he wrote, barely containing his irritation.</p><p>"<em>Really? Everyone knows the story apparently, except no one told me. You-Know-Who was a Dark wizard – the most powerful of all time. Hagrid said only Dumbledore wasn't afraid of him. He killed my parents when I was a baby, but he couldn't kill me. Hagrid said he didn't die exactly, but he lost his powers and is too weak to keep fighting. Everyone at the Leaky Cauldron recognized me, but I don't even remember what happened."</em></p><p>Tom's metaphysical eyebrows climbed higher and higher with each word. A baby defeating a Dark wizard? That was certainly a first, but he'd read of magic doing strange things before. It seemed to have a will of its own at times.</p><p>Of course, it was possible the boy was just lying, but Tom didn't think so.</p><p>If he was trying to impress Tom, claiming he'd done something astonishing <em>as a baby</em> was a very strange way of going about it. Still, if he was lying, Tom would find out easily enough. Most children were terrible liars and sooner or later he'd slip up.</p><p>"<em>That's certainly an incredible feat, Harry," </em>Tom wrote. <em>"May I ask why you call this Dark wizard 'You-Know-Who'?"</em></p><p>"<em>Oh, Hagrid said I shouldn't say the name because people are still scared of him." </em>How pathetic, Tom thought. <em>"But his real name was Lord Voldemort."</em></p><p>And just like that a wave of darkest dread consumed Tom, as he was instantly cast back decades to a conversation he'd had with his Real-self – a conversation about changing their Muggle name to something more commanding.</p><p>It suddenly all clicked into place with a terrifying finality: <em>the most powerful of all time . . . didn't die exactly . . . only Dumbledore wasn't afraid of him. . .</em></p><p>Tom was vaguely away that he hadn't replied to Harry and hastened to correct his lapse.</p><p>"<em>I should thank you for destroying him; he sounds like a fearsome wizard."</em></p><p>And he really did, Tom thoughts with horror.</p><p>How had his Real-self become so terrifying that more than a decade after his destruction <em>adults were still afraid to say his name? </em>What in Merlin's name had happened since they parted ways?</p><p>"<em>Yeah, he must have been. I think I'm going to go to sleep now. Good night Tom."</em></p><p>He barely registered the words.</p><p>"<em>Good night Harry."</em></p><p>–HP–</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Owl and the Memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter 2:</p><p>
  <em>The Owl and the Memory</em>
</p><p>–HP–</p><p>
  <em>“Good evening, Tom. How are you?”</em>
</p><p>The boy’s childish scrawl appeared in Tom’s mind, and he jumped into action. His night had not been wasted on idle conjecture – it was clear to him that action was needed – and that meant getting out of the diary as soon as possible.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m well, thank you. How are you?”</em>
</p><p>Herpo the Foul, the disgusting genius that he had been, had discovered that a Horcrux could feed off of another being’s soul, and thus grow stronger in the process – strong enough to leave the physical anchor and be reborn into the Real.</p><p>The ‘host’ had to give their soul willingly, however, and such selflessness was rare even in the most loyal of followers. Dark witches and wizards throughout the centuries had preferred to use rituals and potions to restore their wandering souls instead, but as Tom did not have a servant with which to cast and brew nor a mouth with which to drink he would have to do things the long way.</p><p><em>“Good, my family went out for lunch, and they didn’t make me stay with Mrs. Figg,” </em>the boy wrote. Tom hadn’t the faintest idea who that might be, and he didn’t care. <em>“Can you tell me about Hogwarts?”</em></p><p>As usual, he had a plan. While the soul might have to be given willingly, it did not have to be given <em>knowingly</em>. It only required the ‘host’ to spill their thoughts and feelings, their desires and fears, into the Horcrux.</p><p>And that meant he had to get the boy to write to him – not the other way around.</p><p><em>“There’s a lot I could tell you about Hogwarts,” </em>he replied easily. <em>“What would you like to know?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“What does it look like? I know it’s a big castle, but Hagrid didn’t really describe it to me.”</em>
</p><p>Perhaps, Tom thought, the best way to get the boy to pour his heart out to Tom might be to lead by example.</p><p>In any case, he wasn’t going to let anyone describe his one true home as just a ‘big castle’ and get away with it.</p><p><em>“It is a truly beautiful place,” </em>he wrote, <em>“a castle of magnificent size, sitting high up on a cliff-face, overlooking the Black lake. Dozens of spires, turrets, and spires stretch into the sky like the wild mountains that enclose it, and its catacombs tunnel deep into the Earth, like roots.</em></p><p><em>It is a maze of halls and corridors, which are cast in golden light by day, and a deep gloom by night. Hundreds of witches and wizards have bequeathed gifts to the school: rare artefacts and books; portraits and tapestries; statues and suits of armour; the walls are not covered in the history of Wizarding Britain – they </em>are <em>the history.”</em></p><p><em>“It sounds amazing,” </em>the boy replied. <em>“Much better than Stonewall High.”</em></p><p>Tom could well imagine such a place – unless Muggle Britain had changed more than he would have thought possible it was probably as grim, miserable, and underfunded as Wool’s orphanage had been.</p><p><em>“Certainly,” </em>he continued. <em>“It is as alive and remarkable as a Muggle building is dead and bland. Magic is soaked into the foundations, and it manifests in every aspect of the castle.”</em></p><p><em>“Hogwarts is alive?” </em>replied the boy.</p><p><em>“In a way,” </em>he answered. <em>“It’s thought to be around a thousand years old, and so a thousand years of magic has been performed on its grounds. Over the centuries that magic has left a mark, an imprint, acting as a sort of enchantment, which has given the castle many of the characteristics of being alive.”</em></p><p>Tom let that simmer for a moment, waiting for the boy to ask for more. He remembered his own stunned reaction when he first came across that tidbit of information, remembered how the castle had grown even more incredible in his eyes.</p><p><em>“What do you mean?” </em>asked the boy. <em>“Can it think, or feel? Does it know what’s happening inside it?”</em></p><p><em>“It does, to some extent,” </em>replied Tom. <em>“And it can certainly feel. I remember one time I was running late for History of Magic because I hadn’t got the hang of how the staircases moved yet.”</em></p><p><em>“The staircases change?!” </em>the boy interrupted. Tom controlled his flare of indignation carefully.</p><p><em>“Yes, Harry,” </em>he wrote crisply. <em>“As you shall see discover in this story. Now, I was running late because the staircases kept changing, and when one of them nearly threw me off of it with a particularly sharp motion I made the mistake of cursing slightly.”</em></p><p>That was putting it mildly, Tom thought amusedly. He seemed to remember some sixth years dropping their books when they had heard his Muggle-London obscenities.</p><p>
  <em>“Hogwarts is as proud as its history is, and did not take kindly to my words. It refused to arrange itself helpfully, and I couldn’t make my way to any of my classes all day.”</em>
</p><p><em>“That’s pretty funny, and a bit mad,” </em>the child replied. <em>“Is it easy to get lost at Hogwarts?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“And it’s a common problem. Hogwarts is an immense labyrinth of alcoves, halls, and passages.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If it’s so confusing, do you get a map?”</em>
</p><p>A map, Tom thought scornfully. As if you could record the unbelievable complexity of Hogwarts on a scrap of parchment.       </p><p><em>“You get used to it,” </em>he answered airily<em>, “and anyone with any sense at all uses the secret passageways because they always connect between the same places. Well, most of them.”</em></p><p><em>“Are there lots of secret passages?” </em>came the boy’s reply, very quickly. Tom thought that was interesting – did he fancy himself as an adventurer? That was good to know.</p><p>
  <em>“They are dozens; I seriously doubt anyone has ever found them all, but I believe I came close. I spent a great deal of time uncovering Hogwarts’s secrets, as I told you when we first spoke.”</em>
</p><p><em>“Wow,” </em>wrote the boy admiringly. “<em>Did you get in trouble? For being late, I mean.”</em></p><p><em>“Hardly, Professor Slughorn understood completely,” </em>Tom wrote with a metaphysical smirk. He had been in the professor’s good graces before Christmas.</p><p><em>“What does he teach?”</em> asked the boy, leapfrogging into yet another question. He really was rather irritating, thought Tom.</p><p><em>“He was the Potions Master, though I don’t know if he still teaches,” </em>Tom replied, more than a little frustrated by his lack of knowledge.</p><p>
  <em>“What’s that like? Potions, I mean. I don’t anything about the subjects at Hogwarts.”</em>
</p><p><em>“Not everyone has the temperament for it; it’s a difficult and delicate process.” </em>Tom wondered how the boy knew this little. Had he not bothered to open his schoolbooks?</p><p><em>“But it’s a practical discipline; many adult witches and wizards waste small fortunes on potions they could easily brew at home,” </em>he continued.</p><p><em>“What sorts of potions can you make?” </em>was the next in an endless parade of questions.</p><p>Tom answered them dutifully, waiting for the boy to run out of steam.</p><p>–HP–</p><p>
  <em>“I think it’s only fair that I get to ask you a few questions now, wouldn’t you say?”</em>
</p><p>In hindsight, Harry <em>was</em> a little embarrassed at how long he had peppered Tom with questions for last night. Still, if Tom let him, he would gladly do it again. He’d thought of loads of things to ask about throughout the day.</p><p><em>“Okay, ask away.” </em>Harry wrote.</p><p>
  <em>“You must have gotten your wand when you went to Diagon Alley; it’s an incredible feeling, isn’t it?”</em>
</p><p><em>“It was brilliant,”</em> Harry recalled happily.<em> “It felt like it was meant for me – I shot sparks all over the shop.”</em></p><p>Then he cast his mind back to the dusty shop run by the strange wandmaker with the luminous, moon-like eyes, and added, <em>“ Although, Mr. Ollivander creeped me out, really.”</em></p><p><em>“Yes, I found him rather unsettling,” </em>Tom replied.</p><p><em>“He sold you your wand as well?”</em> Harry asked, shocked.<em> “He must be nearly a hundred years old!”</em></p><p><em>“I don’t know exactly how old he is, but witches and wizards do live far longer than Muggles,”</em> Tom replied, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.</p><p><em>“Really?”</em> Harry asked eagerly, <em>“how much longer?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“That depends on a great many things, but Headmaster Armando Dippet was over three hundred when I went to Hogwarts.”</em>
</p><p>Harry’s mind gave up struggling entirely, and he simply gaped. Tom must have sensed his astonishment because he rolled the conversation onwards relentlessly.</p><p>
  <em>“Did it take long? Ollivander managed to get mine right on the first try, which I’ve heard is quite rare.”</em>
</p><p><em>“I wish! It took me ages,” </em>he wrote.<em> “I must have tried at least fifty first.”</em></p><p><em>“Ollivander would have described the features of your wand to you,” </em>Tom continued. <em>“Do you know what they mean?”</em></p><p>Harry thought about it and realised he didn’t. Was he supposed to? Neither he nor Hagrid had asked the shopkeeper about it.</p><p><em>“He did,” </em>Harry answered.<em> “It’s eleven inches long and made from Holly. He described it as nice and supple, but I don’t know what that means. Why, does it make a difference?”</em></p><p><em>“A wizard’s wand can tell you a lot about them, if you know your wandlore,” </em>Tom explained. <em>“Would you like to tell me what your wand says about you?”</em></p><p><em>“Yes please,”</em> wrote Harry, quite pleased that he got to learn this from Tom, and not Mr. Ollivander.</p><p>
  <em>“A wand’s flexibility is supposed to reflect its wizard’s. Your wand suggests you are adaptable, which is an admirable trait.”</em>
</p><p>Harry felt himself go slightly red at the unexpected praise.</p><p>
  <em>“Holly is a protective wood but also somewhat . . . temperamental. I have read that it favours the recklessly bold.”</em>
</p><p>Harry thought that was a bit unfair, he did a bloody good job of controlling his temper around the Dursleys!</p><p>
  <em>“The most important part of a wand, though, is its core. Does Ollivander still use just unicorn hair, dragon heartstrings, and phoenix feathers?</em>
</p><p>Harry’s interest in the subject suddenly dried up. He didn’t want to think about his wand’s core very much.</p><p><em>“Yeah, mine’s phoenix feather,” </em>he wrote bluntly. <em>“Mr. Ollivander said it came from the same Phoenix that gave the feather for You-Know-Who’s wand.”</em></p><p>Tom took a moment to reply, and Harry didn’t blame him. It had certainly taken him a minute to come to terms with the fact that the wand most similar to his own was once in the hands of the man who had killed his parents.</p><p><em>“Phoenix feather wands are the hardest to win the allegiance of,” </em>he eventually wrote.<em> “Try not to dwell on your wand’s brother. It’s the single most important thing you own, and likely ever will, you should be very proud.”</em></p><p>That cheered Harry up a bit. It also gave him a strange and powerful longing to hold his wand again and, for the thousandth time, he cursed that his trunk was locked away.</p><p><em>“Thanks, I’ll try to remember that,” </em>he replied.</p><p>
  <em>“You’re welcome. Now tell me, what did you think of the rest of the Alley? Did you visit Gringotts bank?”</em>
</p><p>–HP–</p><p>Tom and Harry talked about his trip into Diagon Alley for some time, which provided a nice backdrop for him to re-evaluate the boy.</p><p>The simple fact that his wand contained a feather from the legendary phoenix Fawkes was a testament to his potential; his own yew wand was immensely powerful, Ollivander had told him so directly. It was likely that this boy’s wand was similarly capable.</p><p>And so, he thought, the boy must be more remarkable than he appeared.</p><p>A remarkable boy that was apparently obsessed with flight – despite never having so much as played a game of Quidditch – if his stream of broom-stick-related questions were anything to go by, Tom thought exasperatedly.</p><p><em>“So apart from on a broomstick or carpet,” </em>the boy wrote,<em> “there’s no other way you can fly?”</em></p><p>Tom mentally frowned, why did the boy seem almost . . . surprised by that?</p><p><em>“Not true unassisted flight,” </em>he answered.<em> “There are a number of spells that can be used to control yourself in the air, however.”</em></p><p><em>“Like a big gust of wind lifting you up or something?” </em>came the quick reply.</p><p>Tom’s curiosity was piqued. There was clearly some reason behind this line of questioning.</p><p>
  <em>“Perhaps something like that would be possible, for a short while. Why do you ask?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I was running away from Dudley once, and I tried to jump behind some bins, and ended up on the school roof.”</em>
</p><p>Of course – accidental magic – he should have known. Fairly impressive accidental magic, as well, though it paled in comparison to Tom’s own abilities at that age.</p><p><em>“That sounds like a textbook example of accidental magic,” </em>he explained. <em>“Magic that bursts out of you during moments of stress. Do you do things like that often?”</em></p><p><em>“I’m not sure, maybe once every few months,” </em>the boy replied. <em>“I shrunk an ugly jumper once, and grew all my hair back in one night, and a few weeks ago I accidentally let a snake out of the zoo.”</em></p><p>That sounded like a particularly chaotic tale, Tom thought, and asked for the story.</p><p>
  <em>“It was Dudley’s birthday, and Mrs. Figg couldn’t look after me so I got to come along too. When we got to the reptile house, Dudley shoved me out of the way to look at this snake – it was sort of communicating with me –”</em>
</p><p>Well, <em>that</em> certainly grabbed Tom’s attention. Was the child controlling animals without realising it, like Tom had learned to do? The first time he’d done it, he’d thought the rat could understand him, too.</p><p>
  <em>“– anyway Dudley and Piers, he’s Dudley’s friend, banged on the glass and it suddenly disappeared!”</em>
</p><p>Serves the little buggers right, Tom thought sharply.</p><p><em>“Vanishing is difficult magic, that’s quite impressive. I’d wager the snake thought so too,” </em>he added, flippantly.</p><p><em>“He was definitely grateful – he said thank you,” </em>Harry replied, cutting through Tom’s levity instantly.</p><p>
  <em>“What do you mean? The snake spoke to you?”</em>
</p><p>That was impossible, Tom knew. The Gaunts were the only surviving family line with the ability, it had died off on all other branches hundreds of years ago, fading as more and more non-Parseltongue blood mingled with Salazar Slytherin’s.</p><p>Tom knew the only reason it had survived in the Gaunt line was because they were more inbred than the Habsburgs – something he tried not to think about as much as possible.</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, it said ‘Thanksss, Amigo’, and slithered off. Is that normal?”</em>
</p><p>And yet, there it was. The boy was a Parselmouth. </p><p><em>“No, it’s not. It’s not normal at all, it’s unbelievable; Parseltongue is the rarest magic ability in the world,” </em>he wrote, utterly stunned.</p><p><em>“Really? How do I have it then?”</em> the boy replied.<em> “I don’t even know what that is!”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Parseltongue, it’s the ability to speak to snakes. You must be the first person to manifest the gift in several hundred years.”</em>
</p><p><em>“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” </em>the boy replied slowly.<em> “Manifest it?</em> <em>What does that mean?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Well, like all magical abilities, Parseltongue is hereditary. It’s passed down in family lines. Salazar Slytherin himself is thought to have brought it to Britain from Iberia.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“So, Salazar Slytherin is my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather or something?”</em>
</p><p>Uncertain how to fully communicate the astounding nature of this manifestation, Tom, embarrassingly, began to ramble.</p><p>
  <em>“No, over the centuries, his descendant’s gifts weakened, became diluted. It happens to all magical abilities; Metamorphmagi, Seers, Parselmouths . . . There have been exceptionally few Parselmouths in Britain since Slytherin’s line failed.”</em>
</p><p>Tom was not about to tell the child about the Gaunts unless he absolutely had to – they were more animal than human, anyway.</p><p>“<em>Certainly, your family were not Parselmouths, or they would have been very famous for it. The only other way to possess such an ability, such a gift, is to manifest it – to be the first link in the chain. The manifesting of any magical ability is exceedingly rare, but I had never thought I would find another–”</em></p><p>He immediately realised his error, but it was too late. And in his panic, he’d stopped writing, and that made it only more obvious.</p><p>
  <em>“Another? You can speak to snakes too?”</em>
</p><p>Well, there was no going back now.</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, I can. That it was you who found me is an incredible stroke of luck – I have never met another Parselmouth.”</em>
</p><p>There was the briefest flicker of something . . . emotion – shock, perhaps, or pleasure. Tom took it as a very good sign.</p><p><em>“That is lucky,” </em>the boy agreed. <em>“Can you tell me more about those other magical abilities, are there people who can talk to other animals?”</em></p><p>Tom obliged him and began to explain about Seers and Metamorphmagi.</p><p>From then on, they wrote to each other for several hours each day, in between the boy’s daily chores and his erratic sleep schedule. They often spoke of Hogwarts and the scores of famous witches and wizards who went there – the boy’s endless list of questions keeping their conversations going long into the night.</p><p>Occasionally, the child told him about his deplorable family and how he craved for an escape – how for as long as he could remember he had dreamed that a long-lost relative might come and take him away.</p><p>And as he did, he poured his heart into the diary, and Tom felt himself grow stronger.</p><p>He did not allow himself to think that he might actually <em>enjoy</em> the boy’s company; he was simply a means to an end.</p><p>–HP–</p><p><em>“Tom, how much magic am I supposed to know </em>before <em>I get to Hogwarts?” </em>Harry asked one evening, finally voicing a question he’d had for some time.</p><p>
  <em>“You are not expected to know any practical magic, any actual spells. Plenty of Muggle-born students arrive each year without knowing so much as a Lumos, and they catch up with everyone else soon enough.”</em>
</p><p>Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. That was a relief, considering he had no idea what a ‘Lumos’ was.</p><p><em>“Why, are you worried, Harry?” </em>Tom asked.</p><p><em>“A little,” </em>he admitted, <em>“I thought everyone might be ahead of me because I haven’t read my textbooks.”</em></p><p><em>“Well, that’s easily remedied,” </em>replied Tom, pointedly.</p><p>Harry realised he hadn’t explained about his trunk and must look quite foolish.</p><p><em>“No, I </em>can’t<em> read them. I mean, my uncle locked them up in the cupboard.”</em></p><p>There was a pause, then Tom asked simply, <em>“Why?”</em></p><p>Harry thought back and tried to remember his uncle’s exact reasoning. It was difficult, because his uncle was not a very rational man.</p><p><em>He said he didn’t want me doing any ‘freaky business’ or something,” </em>answered Harry.</p><p>He felt a flash of anger from the diary, and added, <em>“I know, I’m not exactly happy about it either.”</em></p><p>Very recently – just the day before yesterday – Harry had started noticing flares of emotion from the diary; amusement, pleasure, anger, frustration. Tom had explained to him that wizards who spent a long time with a magical object developed an affinity with them. He seemed quite pleased with this piece of information, and so was Harry.</p><p>
  <em>“Do you still want to be a great wizard someday?”</em>
</p><p>Harry frowned at the non sequitur, wondering if it was a trick question. He thought of the tales Tom had told him; of Merlin and the Founders; of adventure and daring; and of the wizards whose stories were told for centuries.</p><p><em>“Of course I do.” </em>he wrote.</p><p><em>“Then you cannot turn up to Hogwarts already behind,” </em>replied Tom, <em>“I shall teach you.”</em></p><p>Mouth falling open, Harry let out a whoop of delight. Finally!</p><p><em>“Really? Thank you!” </em>he scrawled.</p><p>Tom probably thought his enthusiasm was childish, but Harry didn’t mind.</p><p>
  <em>“You’re welcome. Shall we begin now?”</em>
</p><p><em>“Yes, please!” </em>Nearly vibrating with excitement, he asked, “What<em> are you going to teach me first?”</em></p><p><em>“Well, your handwriting could be improved…” </em>was Tom’s mocking reply<em>.</em></p><p>Harry rolled his eyes, though he knew Tom couldn’t see him. The older boy was so <em>stuffy </em>sometimes.</p><p><em>“That’s not magic!” </em>he wrote hurriedly.<em> “Let’s start with charms or Defence Against the Dark Arts. They sound the most useful.”</em></p><p>Actually, they sounded the most fun. Cursing his cousin sounded especially great, Harry thought wistfully.</p><p><em>“I cannot teach you those subjects without a wand.  What I can teach you, however, is the theory behind them.” </em>Harry’s face fell. Tom, apparently, sensed his mood. <em>“Do not be disappointed, Harry, magical theory is much more fascinating than the Muggle meaning of the word.”</em></p><p><em>“So it’s not like maths or anything?” </em>Harry dared to hope.</p><p>
  <em>“Not at all. Now pay attention, I will not repeat myself.”</em>
</p><p>There was a pause. Tom did seem to have a penchant for dramatics, Harry thought, with a smile.</p><p>
  <em>“What do you think magic is?”</em>
</p><p><em>“It’s spells and stuff – the strange things that happen around me sometimes,” </em>Harry wrote feebly. It was a terrible answer and he knew it. But wasn’t it a bit unfair to give him a question immediately?</p><p><em>“Not an incorrect answer, I suppose,” </em>Tom replied, cheering Harry slightly. <em>“But incomplete.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Magic is in all things: it is in the warm summer air and the coldest stone; it is in the forest that weathers the storm and the howling wind that assaults it; it flows in every creature of the land and sea and sky; it is Time itself, it is the passing of an age and the tightest split-second, and it is in everything else besides.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It runs in all things like a river winding through a valley. And as the river is a source of both creation and destruction, of life and death, so is magic. The power in your blood, Harry, is the power to divert the river, to harness it to your will, and thus change the very nature of reality around you.”</em>
</p><p>Harry sat, utterly enraptured. Tom was right, he thought, this <em>was</em> fascinating.</p><p><em>“Do you understand what I’m saying?” </em>he continued.<em> “Magic is pure potential – as deadly as it is wondrous. It is not some cheap trick Muggle’s perform in the street, nor a toy to be played with by idle hands; the consequences of meddling with power you don’t understand are severe.”</em></p><p><em>“You mean you can hurt yourself if you mess up a spell?” </em>asked Harry.</p><p>
  <em>“It is more likely you will hurt someone else, as that is where your wand is usually pointing.”</em>
</p><p>Harry hadn’t realised there was such a risk involved; hadn’t Hagrid said he’d messed up the spell he’d cast on Dudley? His cousin hadn’t been harmed, except for the pig’s tail poking out from his buttocks – but that intentional.</p><p><em>“Have you ever hurt someone like that?” </em>Harry wondered.</p><p><em>“No, but a friend of mine did . . .” </em>Tom replied mysteriously.</p><p><em>“What did he do?” </em>asked Harry.</p><p>
  <em> “I’m afraid it would take too long to tell you the story.”</em>
</p><p>Harry’s face fell.</p><p>
  <em>“But I can show you.”</em>
</p><p>That sounded even better, thought Harry, though he had no idea how Tom was going to do it.</p><p><em>“Really, how?” </em>he asked excitedly.</p><p>
  <em>“Our growing bond has given me strength. Enough strength to pull you inside my memory, and allow you to watch the events unfold, as I saw them.”</em>
</p><p>Harry grinned. Magic was simply incredible. He scribbled, <em>“Yes, please.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Prepare yourself.”</em>
</p><p>A strong wind appeared suddenly – loud and strong enough to wake up his owl and send her into a panic. Harry tried to calm her down as the pages of the diary flipped over of their own accord, rustling furiously. They settled on a date near the end of January and Harry’s mouth fell open, as he saw that the little square for the 26<sup>th</sup> had turned into a minute television screen.</p><p>One hand petting his owl, he picked up the dairy and peered into the little porthole. Then suddenly, he was tipping forward; the window was widening, and he felt himself falling away from the rickety chair.</p><p>The last thing he heard was an indignant squawk as his hand was wrenched from out of the bars of the cage, and then he was pitched headfirst into a whirling maelstrom of silvery light.</p><p>He hit the ground heavily, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes around him suddenly came into focus.</p><p>And immediately let out an embarrassing yelp, as he nearly fell over backward in shock.</p><p>He was standing in a cavernous stone classroom, with a high vaulted ceiling. Several massive birdcages hung from heavy iron brackets attached to massive fluted columns. There were chalkboards all over the walls, covered in anatomical sketches and complex-looking formulas, and illuminated by half a dozen iron chandeliers.</p><p>There were also two dozen older students, staring at him.</p><p>“Um – I didn’t mean to – I was just –” he stammered, backing up nervously.</p><p>Then, quite unexpectedly, a soft chuckle echoed through the air, seeming to come from everywhere at once.</p><p>“They can’t hear you,” said the same smooth voice. “They can’t see you either. This is just a memory.”</p><p>“<em>Tom?”</em> Harry asked incredulously. He spun around, looking for his companion, and instead found himself looking at the back of a tall wizard with auburn hair, who was reaching into one of the cages for an owl.</p><p>“Yes, Harry,” the voice replied calmly, “and may I say how good it is to finally see you.”</p><p> “So if this is your memory, you must be . . .” he trailed off, turning back to the class, and walking forward with interest.</p><p>“Can you guess which one is me?” Tom asked, sounding curious.</p><p>Harry searched the students who were wearing green trimmed robes and ties, looking for some clue.</p><p>His eye was drawn to several boys talking quietly amongst themselves, but he dismissed them quickly because they looked either confused or uninterested. If he knew anything about Tom, it was that he was a brilliant wizard.</p><p>Harry doubted he’d be looking like Dudley in a maths lesson.</p><p>He walked by them and . . . there!</p><p>“That’s got to be you,” he said triumphantly, stopping in front of an intelligent-looking boy sitting further down the row, who was watching the professor intently.</p><p>“Impressive,” said the room, in Tom’s voice. “Now quickly, watch the professor, watch how he casts the spell . . .”</p><p>–HP–</p><p>Tom watched Harry spin around swiftly to face Dumbledore with and, for the umpteenth time that week, marvelled at the similarities between them.</p><p>They were both in possession of the rarest magic talent in the world, likely the <em>only</em> two Parselmouths in Britain, and possessed wands containing a feather from the same phoenix. They were both raised in squalor and deprivation, by Muggles they despised.</p><p>And now, he had just discovered that they even looked something alike.</p><p>Granted, Harry’s hair was messy, and Tom’s was pristine, but they were the same jet-black. And while Harry was short for his age, and Tom was tall, they were both pale and slender.</p><p>They could easily pass as brothers.</p><p>As he watched Harry stare, mouth agape, at Dumbledore’s transfiguration of an owl into a pair of opera glasses, Tom saw that the only truly distinguishing feature between them was their eyes.</p><p>And of course, he wouldn’t be caught dead with his mouth open like that, he thought wryly.</p><p>Dumbledore abruptly clapped his hands once, and the class got to their feet, each student rushing forward to collect an owl.</p><p>“Do you see my friends, sitting in the same row as me?” Tom asked. They were whispering furiously, debating who was going to actually cast the spell, and who got to simply sit back and enjoy the show.</p><p>“Yeah,” Harry replied, stepping closer. There were four of them, including Tom.</p><p>“. . . come on Cyrille, at least try!” the shortest one said.</p><p>“That’s Henderson Nott,” Tom filled in.</p><p>“Why am I the one who always ends doing these things?” a dark-haired boy replied sharply. “You do it for once!”</p><p>“And that’s Cyrille Lestrange, our unfortunate victim,” Tom said calmly.</p><p>The boys argued back and forth for a few minutes, while Tom and another boy with striking white-blond hair stirred the pot every so often, in between shooting each other amused glances.</p><p>Eventually, Nott drew his wand with a huff.</p><p>He waited until Dumbledore’s back was turned and pointed it across the room at another clump of students.</p><p>“What’s he going to do?” Harry asked, eyes following Nott’s wand with rapt attention.</p><p>“We <em>wanted </em>to get revenge on McLaggen, for jinxing the Slytherin Quidditch team earlier that week, by changing his transfiguration into something a little more adventurous. . .”</p><p>“. . . but he messed up,” Harry finished.</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>As McLaggen pointed his wand at his owl, which was looking quite alarmed, Nott began to cast a spell. Dumbledore turned with uncanny timing and Lestrange hastily grabbed Nott’s wand arm, yanking it down.</p><p>So that it was pointing straight at his own foot.</p><p>–HP–</p><p>Harry yelled for a second time, as the room erupted into chaos.</p><p>A deafening bang and a bright flash had sent all the boys falling backward, and the owls into a panicked flight for the door. Through the smoke and the screaming Harry heard the professor’s voice calling out sharply, as he pushed his way through the throng of students gathering around Lestrange.</p><p>Harry blinked the stars from his eyes and gasped in shock.</p><p>Lestrange was rolling around on the floor, clutching at his foot. Only it wasn’t a foot – it was an ugly amalgamation of a foot, a bulky pair of glasses, and a very angry owl.</p><p>Harry stared in horror as the professor swiftly levitated the boy off of the floor, dismissed the class over his shoulder, and swept out the door. There was a heartbeat of silence, and then Tom and his two remaining friends – looking even more shocked that Harry – ran out after them.</p><p>The classroom immediately began to blur and spin, and Tom’s soft voice cut through the madness just in time to say, “Well, that’s everything . . .” before the scene whirled out of control, and Harry suddenly found himself falling backward onto the floor of his bedroom.</p><p>His owl was hooting madly, her cage tipping dangerously to one side, and he had a strange feeling that no time had passed at all.</p><p>Harry leapt up to soothe her, but no sooner had he opened the cage’s door she flung herself out and soared out of the window with an angry screech.</p><p>The diary was flipping back to its first page, and the wild gusts of air rolling through the room were slowly subsiding.</p><p><em>"That was nasty,” </em>Harry sat down and wrote. <em>“Was he alright?”</em></p><p>Tom’s words drifted into reality, <em>“He was fine. Professor Dumbledore and the nurse had him fixed by the next morning, though the way Cyrille told the story, you’d think they’d had to amputate,” </em>he added with amusement.</p><p><em>“That’s good,” </em>Harry replied. <em>“I see what you mean about messing up a spell, now.”</em></p><p><em>“Miscasting,” </em>Tom corrected. <em>“And good, hopefully, you won’t do anything as foolish as poor Cyrille.”</em></p><p>Harry promised he wouldn’t, and his impromptu lesson continued with a string of further questions about the memory he’d just seen.</p><p>–HP–</p><p><em>“Good morning, Tom,” </em>Harry wrote, yawning loudly. It was barely morning, really, and the dawn cast a weak orange light across the room. Just next to him on the desk, his owl was shuffling about loudly and clucking her beak as she groomed herself relentlessly.</p><p><em>“Good morning, Harry,” </em>came his reply,<em> “how are you?”</em></p><p><em>“I’m okay, just tired. My owl woke me up really early. She’s gotten really restless over the last few days. It’s starting to drive me up the wall a little bit,” </em>he admitted.</p><p><em>“Well, you’ve told her that the two of you are leaving in a week, haven’t you?” </em>asked Tom, as though the answer was obvious. Harry didn’t follow.</p><p><em>"And . . . she’s going to miss being here?” </em>he hazarded.</p><p>Tom was silently laughing, Harry just knew.</p><p><em>“No, quite the opposite,” </em>he replied, <em>“She hasn’t had any other owls to talk to, any letters to deliver, or any wild forests to hunt in, has she? She’s excited to finally be leaving; that’s why she’s restless.”</em></p><p><em>“Well, so am I,” </em>Harry wrote quickly, <em>“but I didn’t wake her up at five-thirty in the morning!”</em></p><p>He was definitely laughing at him now, Harry thought grumpily, he could feel it resonating out from the diary.</p><p><em>“Well?” </em>he asked, exasperated, <em>“what should I do about it?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Let her fly up to Hogwarts now, she’ll come and find you when you arrive, or you can visit her in the owlery.”</em>
</p><p><em>“She’ll be able to find me?” </em>Harry marveled.</p><p>
  <em>“Certainly, owls are highly sensitive to magic.”</em>
</p><p><em>“Brilliant,” </em>Harry replied,<em> “I’ll do that now.”</em></p><p>Then a flash of inspiration struck him, and he picked up the biro again.</p><p><em>“Would she be able to find Hagrid, then?” </em>he asked. <em>“I could write a letter to him.”</em></p><p><em>“That’s a good idea,” </em>Tom wrote approvingly.<em> “And she would just tell her who it’s for.”</em></p><p>Harry paused, his suspicions aroused.</p><p><em>“I didn’t think you liked Hagrid,” </em>he accused.</p><p>It was a point of contention between them; Tom said a half-giant was dangerous and Harry thought Tom had no idea what he was talking about.</p><p><em>“I don’t,” </em>came Tom’s smooth reply, <em>“but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get in his good graces.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“I already told you, I’m not sucking up to him, we’re friends!”</em>
</p><p>Standing up exasperatedly, he looked around the room of cast-off presents until he found a sketchbook that Dudley had torn fistfuls of pages out of in a fit of frustration. Harry selected an intact page and removed it much more carefully.</p><p>He wrote a quick note to Hagrid explaining about his owl and asking how he was doing. As he was finishing up, he thought of Tom’s elegant name on the diary and made a messy attempt at a signature.</p><p><em> “All done,” </em>he wrote, sitting back down at the desk, <em>“how will it take her to reach Hogwarts?”</em></p><p><em>“That depends on where you live,” </em>replied Tom, the words forming slowly. Harry flushed. <em>“But much more quickly than the Muggle post.”</em></p><p> <em>“Right, of course,”</em> he scrawled, <em>“We’re in Little Whinging, Surrey.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“She’ll get there by lunchtime. Hagrid bought her for you, didn’t he?”</em>
</p><p><em>“Yeah, he’s very kind,” </em>Harry wrote deliberately. He could practically see Tom roll his eyes.</p><p><em>“Did he tell you her name,” </em>Tom continued, <em>“or leave it up to you?”</em></p><p><em>“He left it up to me. I was going to pick a famous witch, but I don’t know any,” </em>he wrote, even asthe answer to that problem hit Harry over the head. <em>“I’m so stupid – I bet you do!”</em></p><p>The diary gave a flash of amusement.</p><p><em>“I do indeed,” </em>Tom wrote, <em>“don’t you think that, before we send her back to him, we should pick one?”</em></p><p>Harry immediately saw Tom’s point. He didn’t fancy explaining to Hagrid why he hadn’t been able to name her yet – his uncle might never be fully human again.</p><p><em>“Good thinking,” </em>he replied, <em>“Any ideas?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“How about Circe, the Aeaean Sorceress? From what you’ve told me, your owl is certainly as fierce as she was rumoured to be.”</em>
</p><p>Harry considered it, before writing, <em>“Didn’t she turn sailors into pigs? I’d think of Dudley every time I said her name.”</em></p><p><em>“The less you think about that oaf, the better,” </em>Tom agreed quickly.<em> “What about Cassandra, the legendary Seer?”</em></p><p><em>“I thought of her already, but I’ve never left England – let alone gone to Greece,” </em>Harry admitted, <em>“I was thinking something more personal.”</em></p><p>Tom didn’t reply immediately – Harry knew him well enough to know he was thinking and waited patiently.</p><p>His words formed on the page, a heartbeat later.</p><p>
  <em>“Saint Hedwig of Silesia. She was a powerful witch, and a wise advisor to her husband, the High Duke of Poland, in the early 13<sup>th</sup> century.”</em>
</p><p>Harry frowned, it was unusual for Tom not to wilfully ignore something he said.</p><p><em>“That </em>is <em>a nice name, but I’d really prefer she had a name with some connection to –”</em></p><p>He started as his words faded prematurely, to be swiftly replaced with Tom’s.</p><p><em>“I know what you said,” </em>Tom wrote calmly<em>. “She was also a Saint. The Patron Saint of Orphans.”</em></p><p>Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and he replied with a simple, <em>“Thanks, Tom.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“You’re welcome, Harry.”</em>
</p><p>Harry added a quick P.S at the end of his letter, telling Hagrid of his choice.</p><p>He had barely folded the paper in half when his owl leapt from her cage eagerly and tried to snatch it from his hand, only narrowly missing his fingers.</p><p>“Watch it!” he cried. “This is for Hagrid; you know him, don’t you?”</p><p>His owl gave an impatient hoot and made another grab for the letter, but Harry yanked it back again.</p><p>“Hey!” he said again, more softly, “don’t you want to know your name?”</p><p>She settled at that, her intelligent amber eyes watching him curiously.</p><p>“It’s Hedwig, after the Saint of Orphans. Do you like it?” he asked.</p><p>Hedwig hopped across the desk to nip his hand affectionately.</p><p>“Good,” he smiled, “When you get to Hogwarts, stay there, okay? I’ll come and find you in the owlery when I arrive.”</p><p>She gave a happy hoot, and made a third lunge for the letter, catching him off guard. Harry laughed as she flew a celebratory lap around the room, before disappearing out of the window in a white blur.</p><p>–HP–</p><p>“Another thrilling day,” Harry muttered as he sat down heavily.</p><p>He wouldn’t have to rearrange another piece of furniture ‘just one more inch’, for a whole year, and he was immensely happy about it. Stretching and groaning, he picked up the biro and opened the diary.</p><p><em>“I’m ready, Tom,” </em>he wrote.</p><p>Tom’s lessons were improvised and erratic.</p><p>One night he’d teach him about the basics of Potion-making, and the next would be about the effects of astronomy on various magical plants, or how Elder Futhark runes fuelled the Viking invasion of Britain.</p><p><em>“Before we start,” </em>Tom began, “<em>have you thought of any questions you’d like to ask?”</em></p><p><em>“Yes,</em>” Harry replied quickly. <em>“In that memory, you showed me, you were learning a spell to turn owls into glasses, or something?”</em></p><p>Tom hadn’t brought him into any more memories, saying it had given him a splitting headache, but he was willing to keep telling Harry plenty of stories about his years at Hogwarts.</p><p><em>“Opera glasses, yes,” </em>he replied.</p><p>Harry thought about how to phrase his question without seeming rude.</p><p><em>“Well, is that a normal spell?” </em>he asked, before adding cautiously, <em>“Or is it a bit . . . weird?”</em></p><p>Tom didn’t reply, he was apparently waiting for more. Harry supposed he wasn’t being very clear.</p><p>
  <em>“What I’m saying is, have you ever needed a pair of opera glasses before, or had a spare owl in your pocket or something?”</em>
</p><p><em>“Funnily enough, I haven’t,” </em>Tom replied, amused.</p><p><em>“Neither have I,” </em>continued Harry, relieved that opera wasn’t any more popular with wizards than it was with the Dursleys. <em>“So why were you learning it – isn’t it a bit pointless?”</em></p><p><em>“You know what I am going to say, Harry,” </em>Tom chided.</p><p>Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes; Tom rarely just answered a question anymore; he took great pleasure teasing and prodding Harry until he worked it out himself.</p><p>He understood why he was doing it, but it was frustrating at times.</p><p><em>“I don’t know!” </em>he groused.<em> “Is it just good practice?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“In a way, but be more specific; why would you practise a transfiguration between those particular objects?”</em>
</p><p>Feeling like that last line was a clue, Harry thought as hard as he could. An owl and a pair of opera glasses – they both began with the letter “O”, but that didn’t seem very important. What could be the link? Harry couldn’t think of two objects with <em>less </em>in common than an owl and –</p><p>Wait, he realised, that was it!</p><p>
  <em>“Because they’re nothing alike? One’s alive and the other is dead, one’s round and the other is pointy, one’s feathery and soft and the other is metal and hard – they've got nothing in common at all!”</em>
</p><p><em>“Exactly, well done,” </em>Tom replied.Harry grinned giddily. <em>“You will learn seemingly useless spells because they are excellent for improving your casting ability. Transfigurations, like Strigiforma, will teach you the precision and control to master your magic, as any flaw in your spell is visually obvious.”</em></p><p><em>“Yeah, I think I’d notice if my glasses had feathers,” </em>Harry replied. Then a thought struck him. <em>“Is it the same in the other classes, like Charms?”</em></p><p><em>“That's an interesting question," </em>he replied, seeming pleased.<em> "Charms will teach you the importance of creativity and purpose, being the most temperamental and delicate of all magic. </em><em>Defence Against the Dark Arts will train you to cast your magic with greater power and speed, and to trust in its effectiveness. </em><em>That is why your practical education is divided into classes, and why certain professions require N.E.W.Ts in say, Charms, even if you won’t be casting all that many of them.”</em></p><p>That made a great deal of sense, Harry thought.</p><p><em>“The purpose of Hogwarts is not to teach you specific spells – that’s what spell compendiums are for. The purpose of Hogwarts is to improve your ability to wield your magic, and thus lift your abilities as a wizard to heights you would have never thought possible,” </em>Tom finished grandly.</p><p><em>"I like the sound of that,” </em>he wrote determinedly, <em>“I’m not going to be famous for something I can barely remember. I’m going to earn it.”</em></p><p><em>"</em> <em>I believe you will, and soon you will take the first step of that journey.”</em></p><p>He was going to Hogwarts tomorrow, Harry thought delightedly, for the thousandth time that day.</p><p>Tomorrow, he would finally be free.</p><p>–HP–</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Feast and the Thief</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter 3:</p><p>
  <em>The Feast and the Thief</em>
</p><p>–HP–</p><p>Despite staying up late into the night, Harry woke up hours before he had to, and spent the time pacing and writing to Tom.</p><p>A few hours later his Uncle was unlocking the cupboard under the stairs, and loading his trunk and Hedwig’s cage into the car. His Aunt Petunia glared at him as he retrieved his robes and ran upstairs to change into them, but he didn’t care – he wasn’t going to take any of Dudley’s castoffs with him to Hogwarts if he could help it.</p><p>They reached King’s Cross at half-past ten. His Aunt and Uncle steadfastly refused to leave the car and be seen next to him, so Harry wrestled his heavy trunk out on his own. The moment he closed the boot, they sped away from him without so much as a backwards glance – let alone a goodbye.</p><p>He watched them leave, before beginning the laborious task of dragging his trunk over to a trolley.</p><p>Tom had told him all he had to do was walk through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. But now that he was looking at it, Harry thought it seemed rather solid.</p><p>He stood there for a few minutes, hoping to see some other students go through before him. Soon the large clock hanging in the middle of the station had ticked over to quarter to eleven and he still hadn’t seen any other wizards.</p><p>There was nothing for it, his robes were starting to attract funny looks from the guard, and so he steeled himself and began to walk towards the brick divider.</p><p>A passing businessman jostled him, and he sped up slightly. His trolley had a loose wheel – he was struggling to control it – before he knew what was happening he was running, desperately angling the trolley as best he could. The wall was ten feet away – five feet – Harry closed his eyes and braced for a crash.</p><p>But it never came. Harry opened his eyes, and his mouth fell open.</p><p>A brilliant scarlet steam engine was waiting next to the platform, which was filled with witches and wizards. Flowing robes of every colour filled his sight, and everywhere he looked he saw owls in cages and cats in baskets. Dozens of other students were chattering excitedly and saying goodbye to their parents.</p><p>He walked forward slowly, drinking in the incredible sight.</p><p>The train wasn’t yet full, and more witches and wizards were arriving before his very eyes. Harry nearly leapt out of his skin as a wizarding family <em>cracked</em> into existence mid-stride, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.</p><p>The first few carriage’s doors were crammed with students climbing on and off of the train. He pushed his trolley down the platform until he reached the fourth carriage, which looked like it had some empty compartments.</p><p>He carried Hedwig’s cage on first, but when he went back for his trunk he found an older girl flourishing her wand at it. There was a badge on her cloak – a large silver ‘P’ emblazoned over the Hogwarts crest.</p><p>His trunk rose up into the air gently, and floated past him, followed swiftly by the prefect.</p><p>“You looked like you needed some help,” she said briskly, not even looking at him.</p><p>“Yeah, thanks, I –” he started to reply, but she turned on her heel and walked off.</p><p>Several other students peered into his compartment, but they all left when they saw it was occupied. Half-hidden in his window seat, Harry passed the time people-watching. He goggled at an elderly woman with an entire stuffed vulture on her hat shuffled past, dragging a round-faced boy by the arm. Harry winced as a large toad leapt out of the boys pocket and disappeared into the crowd. Shortly before the train was due to leave, his attention was grabbed by a bustling family with flaming red hair. A plump witch with a kindly face was hurrying them down the platform, holding the hand of a small girl and looking a bit harassed.</p><p>“Ginny, come on now – Ron, keep up. Where is Percy?” she flustered. “Fred, George – help Ron with his trunk –”</p><p>“I’m fine, Mum!” the youngest boy protested.</p><p>“Don’t worry Ronniekins,” one of two twins said in a high voice, “we’ll look after you.”</p><p>They passed out of sight, still bickering, and Harry sat back in his chair. A shrill whistle startled him, and a gentle thrumming passed through the carriage. They must be leaving soon, he thought.</p><p>Sure enough, at the very instant the clock struck eleven, the train lurched suddenly and began to move. It rolled past the waving crowd and picked up unnatural speed; houses and offices flashed by the window. Muggle London soon disappeared over the horizon.</p><p>He’d never been anywhere more rural than the local park, and the winding country lanes seemed wild and untamed next to the orderliness of Little Whinging. Flutters of excitement ran through him – he was really going to Hogwarts. He pulled down his trunk just to retrieve his wand, marvelling at the warmth that rushed up his arm. It was magic, he knew, and it felt <em>wonderful.</em></p><p>The morning passed quickly and without interruption, until at around half-past twelve, a trundling sound came from out in the corridor and then a smiling, dimpled woman slid back the door to reveal a trolley of garishly colourful sweets. Harry was rather hungry and leapt to his feet. The display was too good to resist, and he bought a little bit of everything. He ate his way through the pasties and chocolates happily. The chocolate frog cards were of particular interest to him, and he studied the tiny portrait of Dumbledore for several minutes, mentally comparing him with the younger version Tom had shown him.</p><p>The pleasant countryside had begun to shift into rolling hills and lush woodland when a round-faced boy opened the compartment door and came in.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mumbled, “but have you seen a toad at all?”</p><p>Harry immediately remembered him from the platform – and how his toad had leapt from his pocket and made a break for it.</p><p>“Um – I think I saw one on the platform,” he said, wincing. The boy nodded miserably.</p><p>“I found him before the train left, but now I’ve lost him again!” he wailed.</p><p>“You’ll find him eventually,” Harry said, “he can’t have gone far.”</p><p>“Well, if you see him . . .” the boy said, as he left.</p><p>The afternoon passed steadily then; Harry enjoyed trying Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans – until a sprout flavoured one put him off it – and finally getting to read his schoolbooks.</p><p>‘The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection’ was the most interesting, and might have been his favourite, except ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ had illustrations of brilliant creatures that actually moved! He was so absorbed that he failed to notice the setting sun and startled badly when a sudden shudder ran through the train. The train was beginning to slow down, he realised, and hastily threw everything into his trunk just as they pulled into the station.</p><p>Poking his head out into the corridor, Harry saw that everyone else was leaving their trunks behind. He followed suit, pulling his cloak tighter about him and stepping out in the cold night air. A familiar voice called out loudly, “Firs’-years! Firs’-years over here! Firs’-years follow me!”</p><p>Harry moved towards the large lamp held high in an equally large hand, giving Hagrid a wave through the crowd.</p><p>“All right there, Harry?” he called back loudly. “C’mon, follow me then, firs’-years. Mind yer step, now! Firs’-years this way!”</p><p>The path Hagrid lead them on was steep and treacherous, and the single lamp – bright as it was – did little to illuminate the gloom. Everyone was quiet and nervous and concentrating on not stumbling.</p><p>“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called from the front. “It’s jus’ round this bend here.”</p><p>The boy in front of Harry stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into him. Ahead of them, the path opened up to the edge of the Black Lake. It stretched, glittering and shining, across to a high cliff in the distance. Atop the rock face perched the grand towers, halls and bridges of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.</p><p>“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, as they approached a small fleet of boats on the shore. Harry clambered into one with three other boys that he didn’t know.</p><p>At a cry from Hagrid, the boats launched into the water smoothly and glided towards the castle almost silently. They were aiming straight for the cliff underneath the vast castle, and Harry was just beginning to think they were going to crash straight into it when a curtain of ivy emerged from the gloom. Ducking and pushing aside the vines they passed into a dim tunnel lit by flicking torches, which emerged at an underground beach of pebbles and rocks.</p><p>They clambered out, and Harry heard the round-faced boy they’d met earlier cry out – he’d found his toad, Trevor.</p><p>A massive staircase was carved right into the rock, and they followed Hagrid up it until they reached a walled grass courtyard, and a massive oak door.</p><p>“Everyone here? You there, still got your toad?” Hagrid asked.</p><p>Then he raised a giant fist and pounded the door three times. One of the doors swung open, revealing a witch in crisply-folded robes of emerald green. She was tall and imposing and her black hair was tied in a bun as tight as her expression.</p><p>“The firs’-years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.</p><p>“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here,” Professor McGonagall said.</p><p>She opened the vast double doors fully, revealing a grand entrance hall. The room was lit with huge brass braziers; the walls were decorated with reliefs and niched statues. On Harry’s right, through a set of gleaming golden doors, hundreds of voices rose and fell. The rest of the school must be in there, he thought.</p><p>Professor McGonagall led them through a different archway into a small antechamber. They crowded closer as she explained the four houses – he still wasn’t sure which he liked the sound of best.</p><p>Then she left them and Harry was left to wonder for the thousandth time how they would be sorted – Tom had refused to say. Apparently, it was tradition to keep it a secret. As the minutes ticked by he felt his nerves straining – his hands were getting clammy. A bushy-haired girl next to him was reeling off spells as if her life depended on it.</p><p>Then again, Harry thought nervous, maybe it did.</p><p>When half of the other first-years suddenly screamed loudly, Harry leapt about a foot into the air. A score of ghosts had flown into the hallway and were now streaming straight through the wall as if it wasn’t even there. Two of them – a fat little monk and another who looked he had just walked off the stage of a Shakespearian play – stopped to talk for a short while, before Professor McGonagall came back and moved them along.</p><p>Falling in line, Harry followed the bushy-haired girl back through the entrance chamber into the Great Hall.</p><p>Though the entrance hall was grand, it looked like Harry’s cupboard compared to the splendour in front of him. The Great Hall was truly enormous – four immense oak tables ran its entire length, decorated with embroidered tablecloth and covered in gold plates and goblets – and the cavernous ceiling seemed to just open into the night sky. In addition to the stars, the hall was lit by thousands upon thousands of floating candles, which hung from nothing and drifted gently, as though caught in a breeze.</p><p>Harry tried very hard to pretend that no one was looking at them, with dubious success.</p><p>The first-years came to a stop in front of a more intricately carved table at the end of the hall and watched in confusion as Professor McGonagall placed a scruffy wizard’s hat on a stool. Harry tried to think what on Earth it was supposed to do, but all he could think about was what his Aunt would do if he came home wearing it – throw him out on the spot, he reckoned. The hat twitched slightly, and then suddenly a rip opened wide and Harry’s mouth fell open as it began to sing. As the hat concluded its song, Harry felt his nerves fade away. All they had to do was wear a hat, that wasn’t so bad.</p><p>He still didn’t understand why they had to do it with everyone watching, however.</p><p>Professor McGonagall unfurled a roll of parchment and spoke in a loud and clear voice, “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted: Abbott, Hannah!”</p><p>A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right over her eyes, and sat down.</p><p>Just a few seconds later the hat shouted, “HUFFLEPUFF!” and she ran off to join a cheering and clapping table of students on Harry’s left. He peered at them – they seemed quite a friendly bunch.</p><p>Several more students were sorted into either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, whose table was watching carefully but calmly, before Lavender Brown went to Gryffindor. The far-left table instantly erupted into wild revelry. Harry spotted the redheaded twins from the platform clapping madly.</p><p>That meant the table on the far right must be Slytherin, and sure enough, Millicent Bulstrode was sent to join them a moment later. They had an intense look about them, Harry thought, and cheered just as loudly as the Gryffindors had.</p><p>Harry noticed the hat took different lengths of time to sort each student – Neville Longbottom, the teary boy with the toad, had spent several minutes under the hat before it finally declared him a Gryffindor; whereas Draco Malfoy had hardly put the hat on before it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!”</p><p>There were very few people left before Harry now. They seemed to be sorted in a flash, and suddenly Professor McGonagall was calling out his name.</p><p>He steeled himself and walked forward, steadfastly refusing to look at the hall which had exploded with whispers.</p><p>“<em>Potter</em>, did she say?”</p><p>“<em>The</em> Harry Potter?”</p><p>As he lifted the hat over his head, he had one last view of hundreds of pale faces in front of him – a few ghosts smattered in between them – before it fell over his eyes and he only saw blackness. There was silence for a few seconds, and Harry was beginning to wonder what was supposed to happen when he finally heard something in his left ear.</p><p>“Difficult. Very difficult,” said a hoarse, croaky voice. “No stranger to hard work, and plenty of curiosity. Talented too – oh my goodness, yes – and a great deal of courage. You’d do very well in Gryffindor – you’re practically overflowing with daring. But what a thirst to prove yourself! Yes, with such ambition, you belong in . . . SLYTHERIN!”</p><p>Harry lifted the hat off of his head with a shaky smile – just as the loudest round of applause yet burst out. The Slytherins were cheering, unmistakable triumph on their faces. Many of them had stood up to welcome him, and he shook a few peoples’ hands in a daze.  </p><p>Not everyone was happy, though; Harry couldn’t help but smile at the twins, who were dramatically wailing and clutching at each other’s robes.</p><p>“They’re too dramatic by half,” a deep voice said. Harry turned to look at an older boy on his right. He had a silver prefect badge and short brown hair. “Nicolas Grimmett, fifth-year prefect.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you,” Harry replied, shaking his hand and taking a seat.</p><p>They both turned back to the ceremony, but Harry looked beyond the sorting hat to the High Table. There were many teachers Harry had never seen before, but he spotted Hagrid. He gave Harry a small smile and a wave. Harry grinned and waved back.</p><p>In the middle of the table was an enormous gold chair – almost a throne – and Harry recognised Headmaster Albus Dumbledore from his chocolate frog card instantly, his blue eyes and silver beard practically shone.</p><p>The sorting finished with Blaise Zabini, a tall black boy, taking a seat opposite Harry. The Headmaster got to his feet, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace them all.</p><p>“Welcome!” he called in a clear voice. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”</p><p>He clapped his hands once and sat back down to loud applause. Harry struggled to reconcile this Dumbledore with the one in Tom’s memories.</p><p>“Is he – a bit mad?” he asked Nicolas uncertainly.</p><p>“They say genius and madness walk hand in hand,” he replied. “Help yourself, Harry.”</p><p>Harry looked down and grinned, an enormous feast had appeared on the table: mountains of vegetables and whole platters of roast meat.</p><p>“He’s the most powerful wizard in the world, I doubt he cares what you think of him,” Blaise Zabini spoke up, as Harry was helping himself to a bit of everything.</p><p>“Don’t make me laugh,” a superior voice called from down the table. “He’s ridiculous. Father says that Dumbledore’s an old fool.”</p><p>Harry turned and realised he knew the speaker – it was the blond boy from Diagon Alley. He saw Harry looking and introduced himself, pompously.</p><p>“Yes, we’ve already met,” Harry said, recalling their unpleasant meeting. “In Madam Malkin’s.”</p><p>“We did?” Malfoy replied, pale cheeks flushing slightly. “Well, nice to you see again, then.”</p><p>Harry just nodded and turned back to his food. He was enjoying some roast potatoes, idly listening to Nicolas talking to another fifth-year, when a rasping voice spoke right into his ear.</p><p>
  <em>“That looks . . . delicious . . .”</em>
</p><p>He jumped, his fork clattering against the table loudly. All nearby conversation had stopped, and when Harry twisted in his seat, he instantly jerked back in shock.</p><p>A horrible ghost was floating right behind him, with a gaunt face, blank staring eyes, and bloodstained robes.</p><p>“Good evening, Baron,” Nicolas said calmly. The ghost turned with unnerving slowness to look at the prefect.</p><p><em>“Good evening . . . Prefect . . .”</em> the Baron whispered.</p><p>“May I introduce you to Harry Potter,” Nicolas continued. “Harry, this is the Bloody Baron, Slytherin’s house ghost.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you,” Harry said, quickly adding, “– Baron.”</p><p>The Bloody Baron floated closer still. <em>“Welcome to Slytherin . . . Potter . . .”</em> he said hoarsely. He glided past Harry to talk to the group at large.</p><p><em>“Hello . . . young students . . .” </em>They strained to hear him. <em>“We have won the house cup six years in a row . . . I hope you will help us win it a seventh . . .”</em></p><p>Everyone nodded fervently.</p><p>
  <em>“Good . . . Have a pleasant feast . . .”</em>
</p><p>The Bloody Baron sunk straight into the floor without another word. As he turned back to his food, Harry felt Nicolas pat him on the shoulder.</p><p>“You’ll get used to him, don’t worry,” he said. The rest of the first years looked just as unconvinced as Harry. “It’s actually quite nice to have the only house ghost that scares Peeves.”</p><p>Harry helped himself to some treacle tart as the prefect warned them of the mischievous poltergeist. Soon the talk turned to their upcoming classes.</p><p>“I’m looking forward to Potions the most,” Blaise said to a short girl with dark hair – Pansy, Harry thought her name was. “I’ve heard Professor Snape favours us.”</p><p>“What about you, Draco?” asked Pansy.</p><p>“Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he said immediately. “I can’t wait to learn some really good curses. Maybe we’ll get to practice a few on some Gryffindors, as well.”</p><p>Everyone laughed – Draco looked so pleased with himself Harry thought he might burst.</p><p>Nicolas leaned over. “You won’t be learning about curses for a few years. You’ll start with simple jinxes, and work your way up.”</p><p>A chorus of protests sounded from the first years.</p><p>“A few <em>years?</em>” Harry complained.</p><p>“I’m afraid so,” Nicolas nodded sympathetically.</p><p>Harry was beginning to feel rather drowsy, stuffed full as he was. At last, the puddings vanished from the tables, and Dumbledore stood up again.</p><p>“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.”</p><p>Harry could hear chuckling coming from the other side of the hall.</p><p>“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.”</p><p>Draco and Blaise both looked up at that, along with some of the older Slytherins.</p><p>“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third- floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death.”</p><p>Harry almost laughed, but caught himself when he saw the look on Nicolas’s face – the older boy looked entirely unamused.</p><p>“Is he being serious?” whispered Harry.</p><p>Nicolas nodded, “Yes, I think so, but he didn’t tell us about it.”</p><p>Harry wondered if that sort of thing was normal at Hogwarts.</p><p>“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. The hall abruptly lurched to its feet. Dumbledore drew a long wand from his robes and flicked it sharply – golden ribbons streamed out of the tip and curled themselves into words.</p><p>“Everyone pick their favourite tune,” he said cheerfully, “and off we go!”</p><p>There was a pause, and then the hall burst into noise. Harry tried to follow along, but it was nearly impossible with everyone was singing at a different tempo. Blaise hadn’t even opened his mouth to try, and looked deeply unimpressed. Eventually, the hall died down, except for the redheaded twins again, who were singing very slowly in deep voices. Harry laughed as Dumbledore conducted their last few lines personally, before sending them all off to bed with an, “Off you trot!”</p><p>The Slytherin prefects lead them out into the entrance hall. On their right, an enormous marble staircase climbed several stories, culminating in a huge stone archway. Despite his drooping eyelids, Harry wanted to see more of the castle, but they were lead instead down a tight spiral staircase. They emerged in a dim labyrinth of cold corridors, lit by flickering torches, and eventually stopped at an innocuous section of bare wall.</p><p>“The password is <em>Runespoor</em>,” Nicolas told them. The wall depressed slightly and then slid sideways. “It changes once a fortnight, you’ll see the new one over the mantelpiece; don’t forget it and don’t tell it to anyone.”</p><p>Harry followed the group into the common room. It was a long, rectangular room with rough stone walls. Bulbous lamps hung on chains from thick pillars, throwing green light across the floor. They crossed the room, and then the first-years split off down two corridors. In the last room six four-poster beds, three on either side of the room, were hung in green drapes. A blazing fireplace sent shadows dancing across the walls.</p><p>Their trunks had been put against the ends of the beds – Harry was between Blaise and Vincent Crabbe.</p><p>“Not too bad, I suppose,” Draco drawled. Harry ignored him and quickly changed into his pyjamas; he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.</p><p>In his dreams, Harry was standing in the Great Hall at night. All the staff were sitting at their table, but instead of Dumbledore, it was Professor Quirrel in the Headmaster’s chair. When they saw Harry, they cheered and began to clap, but as soon as he stepped towards them the floor jerked violently, and he fell over.</p><p>The room began to tilt frighteningly, more and more, until he started to slip backwards. Soon he was sliding out of control towards the great double doors to the entrance hall. They swung open with a crash, and Harry pitched headfirst into the darkness beyond – he awoke with a gasp, sweating and shaking.</p><p>He rolled over and fell back to sleep, and when he woke the next day, he didn’t remember the dream at all.</p><p>–HP–</p><p>Harry had thought Tom had prepared him Hogwarts, but now that he was here he could only laugh at the very idea.</p><p>It was impossible to be ready for Hogwarts.</p><p>The lessons were hectic and the corridors even more so. At any given time and place there seemed to be a dozen things to look at. The portraits and tapestries, the statues and suits of armour, the absurd number of halls and classrooms – Harry thought there couldn’t be anywhere else in the world like Hogwarts. Between the school’s one-hundred and forty-two staircases, numerous hidden passageways, and a tendency for landmarks to rearrange themselves, Harry seemed to spend most of his free time trying to find his next class.</p><p>With Peeves thrown into the occasion, it was a wonder he arrived anywhere at all.</p><p>Everywhere he went the other students kept trying to have a good look at him. People followed him down hallways, or poked their heads around doors, only to catch his eye and duck away again. And he thanked his lucky stars that Tom had been teaching him for almost three weeks; there was a great deal of complicated magical theory to grapple with and without his help Harry knew he would have been struggling.</p><p>They spoke every evening for a long while: first Tom would help him with his homework; then Harry would tell him about his day, something Tom seemed to actually look forward to, and then they would continue their lessons.</p><p>Sometimes he’d tell Harry stories from his own time at Hogwarts instead, which Harry liked even better.</p><p>The only thing Tom couldn’t help him with was the other Slytherin boys. Harry never believed that it was possible for someone to be more unpleasant than Dudley, until he met Draco Malfoy. Harry had yet to hear something come out of Malfoy’s mouth that he agreed with, and Malfoy’s constant stream of mocking comments had ensured they had clashed almost every lesson.</p><p>The other boys weren’t much better: Crabbe and Goyle had twice the muscle and half the brainpower of a troll; Theo seemed a solitary person, and Harry’s attempts to talk to him had been fruitless; Blaise was even worse, there didn’t seem to be a single person in the school who Blaise respected or admired in any way – Harry hadn’t bothered trying to befriend him.</p><p>Still, Hogwarts was far preferable to his old life at Privet Drive. The castle was astonishing – Harry completely agreed with Tom on that front, it really did feel alive – and the lessons were fascinating. Under Tom's tutelage, he’d managed to win several points for Slytherin, and Professor McGonagall had even given him a rare smile when he’d managed to turn his matchstick silver, though the sharp point of a needle still escaped him.</p><p>Not even Tom could improve Professor Binn’s lessons though, Harry thought ruefully, as he helped himself to a bowl of porridge, with a generous dashing of sugar. A cacophony of flapping and screeching interrupted his thoughts, as the morning post arrived. Hedwig swooped down, landed next to his plate, and set to work on his toast at once. He scratched the back of her neck affectionately. She didn’t have any post, but she reminded him of the note he’d got the morning after the sorting ceremony – he was going to visit Hagrid this afternoon, he’d been looking forward to it all week.</p><p>He checked his timetable – Double Potions, and then the afternoon off. Harry hummed to himself; he hadn’t met Professor Snape yet, and he wasn’t sure if wanted to. Professor Snape was twice as intimidating as all the other teachers put together. He was short-tempered and unpleasant, according to just about everyone, and delighted in giving out detentions as often as he could.</p><p>Taking a final gulp of pumpkin juice, he followed the other first-years out of the Great Hall.</p><p>The potions classroom was down in the dungeons, like their common room. Unlike their common room, it was cold and damp. Jars of pickled somethings lined the walls, glinting in the torchlight. The classroom was empty when they arrived, and Harry picked the desk furthest from Professor Snape’s station, just in case. Malfoy took the seat behind him and gave him a nudge.</p><p>“Hey, Potter,” he said. “Want to make a bet on how long it takes one of the Gryffindors to do something disastrous? Or are you going to try and beat them to it?”</p><p>“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said irritably.</p><p>Not long after, the other half of the class arrived, and then the Professor. The class fell silent immediately, and Snape was hardly louder than a whisper as he took the register. When he reached Harry’s name, his eyes flicked towards him. They were as dark and cold as his room.</p><p>“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new . . . celebrity.”</p><p>Harry shifted uncomfortably, and he heard Malfoy stifle a laugh. Snape finished taking the register and then swept around his desk to stand in front of them.</p><p>“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began. He gathered up his robes and folded his arms. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. ... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death— if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”</p><p>You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed.</p><p>“Potter!” Snape suddenly called – half the room twitched. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”</p><p>Harry thought desperately. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Gryffindor girl’s hand shoot into the air. He recognised both of those ingredients, but their use together escaped him.</p><p>“I don’t know, sir,” he said.</p><p>Snape’s lips twisted.</p><p>“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything,” he said coldly. “Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”</p><p>Relief filled Harry; Tom had taught Harry about the life-saving simple stone during a short tangent on poisons.</p><p>“The stomach of a goat, sir,” Harry said confidently.</p><p>“Do you see any goats, Potter?” asked Snape, looking around the room. Harry felt the smile slide off his face. “Last chance. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”</p><p>The Gryffindor girls hand hadn’t gone down, and now she actually stood up, stretching towards the ceiling. Harry wracked his brain; he knew both of those ingredients too, he’d read about them in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. They both had poisonous leaves, and . . . and . . . and–</p><p>“I don’t know,” Harry said quietly.</p><p>“Pity. For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A number of bezoars are kept for emergencies in that cupboard,” Snape said, glancing off to the side of the room. “And as for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”</p><p>Harry silently fumed as he reached for his parchment.</p><p>How was he supposed to know where the bezoars were kept? And that last question was a trick – he hadn’t been able to think of a difference because there weren’t any!</p><p>The lesson didn’t get much better from there.</p><p>They were to brew a ‘simple’ cure for boils – Harry soon found out it was anything but. Even worse, with Snape prowling around the room, freely complimenting Malfoy’s work and criticizing everyone else’s, it was nearly impossible to concentrate. Snape was just scrutinising Harry’s stewed horned slugs when there was a fierce hissing sound from across the room. Harry looked up in time to see Neville’s cauldron melt, collapse and throw the incomplete potion all over his arms.</p><p>“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, vanishing the spilt potion with an angry flick of his wand. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”</p><p>Neville could only nod and moan as vicious welts bubbled up under his skin. Snape sent him to the hospital wing immediately, scolded Neville’s partner Seamus for carelessness, and rubbed salt in Neville’s wounds by docking a point from Gryffindor. Malfoy was even more unbearable for the rest of the lesson. Harry escaped as soon as he could – having turned in an “acceptable” potion – angry and disappointed in equal measures.</p><p>He’d been looking forward to potions until now; Tom had said it was one of the most practical skills he’d be taught at Hogwarts. You could do a lot with potions, apparently, if you were clever.</p><p>That afternoon, at five to three, Harry walked across the rickety wooden bridge towards the sundial stones. Hagrid lived on the edge of the Forbidden Forest in a little hut – a curl of smoke was rising from its stubby chimney, and a small vegetable patch stretched from its walls towards the trees.</p><p>Harry followed the path through the knee-high grass and knocked on the heavy oak door. Almost immediately it shook against the frame as if something had knocked into it, and then Harry heard several deep barks.</p><p>The door opened slightly, and Hagrid’s bushy face appeared. Lower down, at Harry’s height, a big slobbery tongue was sticking through the gap.</p><p>“Hang on,” Hagrid grunted. “Back, Fang – <em>back</em>.”</p><p>He stepped back from the door, and Harry pushed it open. The hut was just one room, filled with oversized furniture and the trappings of a groundskeeper.</p><p>“It’s good to see yeh, Harry,” Hagrid said, closing the door and letting go of the huge boarhound. It bounded straight to Harry and nearly bowled him over trying to lick his ears.</p><p>“Hello Hagrid,” replied Harry, climbing onto a stool to escape Fang. The dog dropped its head onto his lap with a whine. “Thanks for inviting me over.”</p><p>“Don’ mention it,” he replied gruffly.</p><p>Hagrid set a copper kettle boiling and passed Harry a plate of rock cakes. They nearly chipped a tooth, and Harry could hardly lift his immense mug of tea, but it was nice to tell Hagrid all about his first week at Hogwarts. He was especially glad to get Snape’s lesson off his chest, though Hagrid told him it was nothing to worry about.</p><p>“An’ how are the other Slytherins treatin’ yeh?” Hagrid asked carefully.</p><p>“I don’t really talk to them much, but I hate Malfoy,” Harry said, throwing his hands up angrily. “He’s arrogant and spoiled – even worse than Dudley.”</p><p>Hagrid’s face darkened. “Doesn’ surprise me. Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy’s worth listenin’ ter. Don’ let him get ter yeh.”</p><p>“What do you mean the whole family?” Harry asked, intrigued.</p><p>“I mean they’re the worst sort o’ people, Harry, the whole lot of ‘em,” Hagrid said, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “Lucius Malfoy – Draco’s father – he fought for You-Know-Who. He was one o’ the firs’ to come back an’ say he’d been bewitched. Load o’ rubbish – he didn’ need an excuse ter go ter the other side.”</p><p>As much as he hated Malfoy, he never would have guessed that. Harry sat back, absorbing what Hagrid had told him. As he did, he saw something moving; it was a cutting from the Daily Prophet. He reached across the table and picked it up, and as he read, his eyes grew wider and wider.</p><p>“Hagrid!” he said excitedly. “This break-in was on my birthday! It might’ve been happening while we were there!”</p><p>He looked up from the article and caught Hagrid’s eye. The groundskeeper looked distinctly uncomfortable. “What do you think?”</p><p>He just grunted through a mouthful of rock cake. Harry re-read the article carefully. <em>‘The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same day.’ </em>Hagrid had emptied the vault they’d visited. It had only contained that little package, after all.</p><p>Maybe that was what the thieves were after? Had Hagrid collected it just in time?</p><p>–HP–</p><p>His resurrection – if it could be called such a thing – was progressing better than Tom could have hoped.</p><p>Before coming to Hogwarts, he’d expected Harry to start writing to him less. His pathetic family might have burdened him beyond belief, but Hogwarts was as close to being perfectly distracting as anything could be. Instead, it had simply given them more to talk about, and Tom’s strength was returning faster, he could feel it. The boy’s emotions came to him easily now, and although he wasn’t particularly happy that the reverse was also true, he couldn’t deny it was a good sign.</p><p>He didn’t know how long it would take, but he would get out of this diary.</p><p>It was Saturday, and Harry had apparently carried him to the shores of the Black Lake, where he’d taken shelter under an ancient beech. They’d spent the early hours of the morning talking, the subject matter changing from one moment to the next, in a matter that Tom had begun to enjoy.</p><p>
  <em>“But what could fit in the palm of your hand and still be worth breaking into Gringotts for?”</em>
</p><p><em>“A great many things,”</em> Tom replied. <em>“There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of artefacts that could fit the bill.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Well, that narrows it down.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Indeed.”</em>
</p><p>Harry’s most recent line of inquiry concerned the Gringotts break-in and Hagrid’s seeming involvement. Tom had to admit, he was interested as well. Gringotts was famously impenetrable, and the fact that nothing had been taken was sheer dumb-luck – this was a historical first.</p><p>Tom mulled it over – if Dumbledore had known the package was going to be stolen from Gringotts, then it would make sense for him to move it here. Hogwarts was probably the next best place to keep something safe.</p><p><em>“Perhaps,”</em> wrote Tom, <em>“we should be thinking about what sorts of artefacts would be advantageous to Hogwarts? Hagrid did say it was for Hogwarts, didn’t he?”</em></p><p><em>“Yeah, he said it was ‘official Hogwarts business.’” </em>All of a sudden, there was a tremendous flare of pure realisation from the Real.<em> “The third-floor corridor!”</em></p><p>The third-floor corridor? Tom didn’t follow.</p><p>“I don’t follow.”</p><p>“At the welcoming feast Dumbledore said not to enter the third-floor corridor this year,” Harry continued in a rush,<em> “unless you wish to die a painful death! If it’s at Hogwarts, I bet it’s being kept in there!”</em></p><p><em>“Are you sure he wasn’t telling a bad joke?”</em> wrote Tom, sceptical.</p><p><em>“No, one of the prefects said he was being serious,”</em> was the eager reply.</p><p><em>“Then I think you might be right,”</em> Tom wrote. <em>“It’s too much of a coincidence. If it’s still at Hogwarts, it’s probably there.”</em></p><p><em>“And so Dumbledore told everyone to stay away to keep it hidden?” </em>replied Harry.</p><p><em>“And therefore safe,” </em>he agreed. “<em>That would make sense.”</em></p><p>They were silent for a few minutes, both lost in thought. Just what was Hogwarts guarding this year?</p><p>–HP–</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aaaaaand we're back! Enjoy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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